


Undisclosed Desires

by Coffee_Scribbles



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, YouTube RPF - fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: (obviously that's not true), Accidental Emotional Angst, Alcohol, Awkwardly Hot Ethan Nestor, Burlesque, Crack Concept Taken Incredibly Seriously, Cute Ethan Nestor, Drinking, Ethan Nestor Having Real Emotions, Everyone Is Gay, Exclusive Clubs, Flirting, Flirting For Self-Esteem, I.e Ethan's self-loathing extends itself so he thinks everyone hates him, Idiots in Love, Lingerie, M/M, OC Lesbian Relationships, Platonic Flirting, Platonic Grinding, Platonic Lingerie Shopping, Porn, Questioning, Secrets, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexuality Crisis, Sexy Ethan Nestor, Unreliable Narrator, body glitter, emotional tension, nightclubs, porn star oc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Scribbles/pseuds/Coffee_Scribbles
Summary: Ethan's twenty first birthday had come and passed with very little fanfare. Sure, he’d shared a couple drinks with friends for it, but it hadn’t exactly been extravagant.It made sense of course; most, if not all his friends in LA were older than he was, so the excitement of drinking had long since worn off.Plus the fact that Mark couldn’t drink- and the fact that they were public figures- Even to such a small extent as being YouTubers... Well, it wasn’t exactly the kind of life you could live in anonymity.Ethan, however, had the dubious honor of being less popular. He knew he had less subscribers, and he was less of an influencer.That also meant that he could get lost in a crowd much easier than Mark could.His mind went back to those neon lights. Drawn like a drunken moth.....It wasn’t like he exactly had somewhere to be tomorrow.(i.e, Ethan is tired of being treated like a kid. So, in his free time, he decides to check out the LA party-scene. It ends… surprisingly well.)
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 29
Kudos: 118





	1. Mercurial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mer·cu·ri·al  
> mərˈkyo͝orēəl
> 
> (adjective) Subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind.

“Well I’m headed out,” Ethan called out, trying and failing to rub a dried, cracking stain from his shirt sleeve. His friends within called out their goodbyes, wishing him a safe drive and packing up the rest of their stuff.

Ethan popped open his back-door, tossing in his duffle bag with all his filming equipment with a clunk, then moved to the front and climbed inside.  
Ethan twisted the key in the ignition and let the car purr to life.

  
He let out a long breath, relaxing for what felt like the first time in hours. He loved his friends, he really did. He loved working with Mark and Tyler and being around Amy and Kathrine. He loved making videos and making jokes. But…  
  
The sun was quickly setting over the horizon, and if he wanted to get home before traffic got bad, he’d have to hurry.

  
Ethan pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, trying desperately to not let it bother him. Even as his mind continued to spiral.

_“Here, put those in to soak,” Ethan had said, rearranging the sink to fit Tyler’s baking tray of burnt cookies in._

_“It’ll help get stuff un-stuck.” They’d been trying to bake without a recipe again, and it ended how it always did; inedible, but mostly entertaining._

_For the video, after making the batter —to which Ethan had added one too many eggs and a bit too much flour, causing his cookies to go weirdly runny and taste chalky— they’d all set times to take theirs out at._

_Mark had decided on ten minutes, leaving his cookies barely not dough- but moderately gooey.  
Ethan’s had set for fifteen, meaning his cookies had at least looked nice and golden brown.  
And, for some unknown and ungodly reason, Tyler had bet his on twenty five minutes; meaning that his perfectly good dough had been turned into black, dusty pancakes that now clung to the pan._

_It had been hilarious to all have to try one of each though; Ethan grabbed a drink of water to help rid it of the ashy aftertaste that still clung to his tongue._

_“Wow Ethan, looks like you finally did something right,” Mark had exclaimed sarcastically after Ethan had been pronounced ‘winner’. Dramatically patting Ethan on the back before rounding the counter to get back to his own cookies. Rambling something about Biased judges as Mark picked one up to take a dramatic bite out of, but it clumped and fell through his hands like wet sand._

_“I wish my dad told me that,” Ethan said, making sure to add a funny voice to make sure nobody thought he was serious.  
He flipped on the tap, running the warm water over the black ‘cookies’ and hoping they’d soak their way off._

_He turned back, and smiled, just a little tiny bit sadistically enjoying how much Mark stiffened at the whole feelings thing._

_“Whelp!” Mark said, twisting away from him, “that’s a can of worms I’m not touchin’.” He shoved a handful of his warm cookie dough into his mouth, scarfing from his own hand not unlike a horse snarfing down hay._

_“But I want to talk about my feelings,” Ethan said, leaning across the counter and toward Mark; struggling really hard to hold up the innocent puppy-dog eyes and pouty lip as he tacked on, “papa bear.”_

_Mark choked._ _Spitting out pieces of cookie across the room._

_From the other side of the room, behind the cameras, Tyler and Amy burst out laughing._

_“I’m gonna kill you,” Mark said with a laugh, waving a dirty spatula toward them both.  
"And Tyler. And everyone else in this whole place.“_

_He turned to the cameras._

_“Like and subscribe while these idiots are still alive,” Mark said loudly, flailing his spatula about, “because the clock’s ticking there.”_

_They all laughed, and figured they’d finish the video with that._

_  
A little bit later, they were all packing up the majority of the camera equipment._

_“Dude, you always react so much to Ethan doing that,” Tyler commented, ribbing at Mark for his literal, cookie filled spit-take earlier. Ethan would have to remember to do a cool zoom on that when he edited.  
_ _“It’s fucking hilarious,” Tyler said._

_“To Ethan doing what?” Mark asked, pocketing his phone from where he’d been distracted._

_“Calling you papa bear- being all,” Tyler gestured vaguely, “all baby.”_

_“Well, he is baby.” Amy said solidly, like this was gospel.  
The whole room sort of nodded, and Ethan tried not to focus on it too hard._

_Maybe that was where it had begun.  
The discomfort crawling under his skin, worming his way into his chest. Ethan stiffened his shoulders. He took a deep breath of the still-slightly-smoky air._

_“Yeah, it’s a pretty good bit,” Ethan said, doing his best to keep the hollowness out of his tone. He knew it was a cardinal rule of comedy, to never mention the bit… But he really needed to be sure that they didn’t actually-_

_“I mean, it is a good bit,” Tyler said, “but it’s also kinda true.” Tyler looked up at him from where he’d been rolling up a chord in his hands._

_“You are the youngest.”_

_Yeah, that’s exactly what he didn’t want._

Ethan’s hands gripped on the wheel, barely remembering to check his mirrors as he changed lanes and took his exit. He passed the sparkling lines of colorful lights. Neon signs for clubs and bars smudging against his window, neon stains against an almost completely dark horizon.

His mind still reeling, replaying that moment, those words over and over.

_‘You are the youngest.’_

Ethan was well aware he was the youngest; it was poked fun at occasionally… but he was still an adult, just like the rest of them.

He had moved out on his own, paid his bills and had his own apartment. He managed his own life to be here, to make videos with them.

  
He didn’t need to be babied on top of all of that.  
  
  


And it wasn’t that he couldn’t take a joke. Tyler and Mark’s constant ribbing at the way he acted, at his channel, at his ADHD, at his skin, at his hair, proved that much.  
So yes. He could take a joke.

  
So long as it stayed _just a joke_.

Without even thinking, Ethan had already unloaded everything from his car, fed Spencer, and made himself a nutritious dinner of reheated vegetable pasta, which he could barely remember tasting.

He was trying really hard not to let any of this bother him. Because fuck. Even if it wasn’t a joke, what did it matter?  
Ethan himself knew he was an adult. And what was so wrong with wanting to be treated like one?

He brushed his teeth angrily, minty toothpaste-foam dribbling down his chin. He washed his face, and threw himself into his pajamas. Curling flat under the soft, cold covers.

He tried to force himself not to care what they thought of him.  
If they wanted to baby him, then so what? He had his own life to live, thank you very much. And he had things to do that didn’t involve being infantilized and ostracized just because he was ‘young’.

Ethan laid awake for an hour more, before grimacing and throwing a hand over his eyes.

  
God, he really was a child. Tucked into bed at nine, already his jammies. He even had a glass of water set out on his nightstand.

  
But what the hell could he do about it? It wasn’t as though he could just march up to Mark and demand he be treated like an adult. That would just make him look like a kid having a temper tantrum.  
He could say it in passing, but that would probably just end up with it getting overlooked, or swept under the rug.  
He could try to be more polite about it. Sit them down gently and say he was uncomfortable... but that just felt weird. And it held the door open for them saying he was blowing it out of proportion; that sitting them all down like it was an intervention was unnecessary, and that he was making mountains out of molehills.

Without his permission, as it is so want to do, Ethan’s mind drifted.

His eyes blinked open at the memory of those neon lights.

He’d been in LA for a while now, but he’d never really done any kind of clubbing or night-life activity.

His twenty first birthday had come and passed. He’d shared a couple drinks with friends for it, but it hadn’t exactly been extravagant. It made sense of course; most, if not all his friends in LA were older than he was, so the _excitement of drinking_ had long since worn off.

Plus the fact that Mark couldn’t drink- and the fact that they were public figures, didn’t exactly amp up the energy. Even to such a small extent as being YouTubers- it wasn’t exactly the kind of life you could live in anonymity. So going on a rager and throwing themselves at the pavement where anyone could see, or video them… well it wasn’t great.

Ethan, however, had the dubious honor of being less popular. He knew he had less subscribers, and he was less of an _influencer_.

That also meant that he could get lost in a crowd much easier than Mark could.

His mind went back to those neon lights. Drawn like a drunken moth.

...It wasn’t like he exactly had somewhere to _be_ tomorrow.

Ten minutes of _deeply grueling internal debate_ later, and Ethan was fully stripped of his pajamas, hunched in front of his closet and sorting out what he would wear if, hypothetically, he were going to do this.

He immediately ran into a problem.

  
Ethan had never had the most confidence in his appearance. But on the times he had been complemented, he’d been informed that he was ‘cute’, or ‘sweet’. Sometimes he’d even get ‘attractive’.

But Ethan had never really been ‘hot’, and his wardrobe definitely reflected that.

He sorted through drawers full of of light wash denim and sweatpants, but eventually settled on a pair of ripped up, smokey-black skinny jeans. Then comes the harder part; finding a top that matched these.  
He shoveled through the drawers again, then onto the floor around them, diving into the narrow piles of stretched-out t-shirts and oversized hoodies.

He’s about to just settle on a navy blue work out tank-top when he found something.

From in the very back, half-stuck under another pile, he pulled out a rumpled black button up.  
He didn’t even remember purchasing it- until he remembered that one of his ex’s had gotten it for him. It had shrunk in the wash a little after he’d first gotten it, meaning he couldn’t button it up to the top anymore, so he really never wore it. But from what he’d seen in tv shows and movies, clubbing was all about wearing clothes too tight for you with plunging necklines.

So, he tried the outfit on. Fitting it slightly tightly over his shoulders and doing up the opalescent buttons. He had to jump and stretch a little to get the jeans to fit right, and ended up fashioning it with a comfortable pair of dark converse and some black and navy checkered socks.

He cuffed the sleeves rolled them up to his elbows, looking in the mirror.

He looked… different. Like, really different.

  
Maybe he should wear button ups more often.

Before Ethan headed out, he grabbed a long, silver chained necklace and fastened it around his neck. If only to have something for when he inevitably lost his nerve and needed something to fiddle with. He ordered an Uber, patted down his pockets, making sure he had his phone, wallet with ID, and keys before he stepped out.

It was drizzling warm rain, creating a soft mist over the hot asphalt and hazy streets, where amber lights flicked on. Ethan felt something stir in his chest, hollow and free; energized in a way he hadn’t felt in a months.

His Uber pulled up, and he was gone into the night.


	2. Cacoethes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cacoethes  
> /ˌkakəˈwēT͟Hēz/  
> (noun) An irresistible urge to do something inadvisable.

The neon lights smear across the windshield with the drizzling rain. The Uber pulls to a stop in front of a club.

Ethan looks around.

  
There’s… more people than he thought there’d be. Lines drawn around blocks, all flashing with lights and glittery outfits.  
The man in the front seat smiles back at him knowingly, wishing Ethan a ‘fun night’. Ethan thanks him and curses his shaky voice as he opens the door.

  
Ethan steps out onto the curb and into the fresh night air, and is immediately assaulted by the noise. Plenty of people chatting, yelling, exclaiming into the wild night. The bump of various base-heavy songs vibrated through the doors and out into the street. Rain drizzles down warm, people laugh rambunctiously, like children splashing in puddles, they take to the wet world with a wonder-filled gleam.  
Ethan weaves through the crowds beyond the lines, smelling like sweat, alcohol and heavy perfumes.

Finding the closest club with the shortest line —with the least rambunctious-drunk looking people in it— Ethan steps up, and waits. Tucking himself under the building’s awning.

  
Ethan brushes a hand through his bright blue hair, kind of glad that he hadn’t gotten it re-dyed that recently, so he didn’t have to fear the dampness would roll down his neck and stain his nice —abet a little tight— shirt.  
Ethan leans up against the brick siding, the rough prickle of brick chills through him.

  
The woman and man in front of him chat animatedly under the glowing blue neon sign. ‘Desire, Bar and Club’. The man’s large hand is on the small of her back, drifting lower on her sequined mini-skirt. The woman leans into him and grips at his muscular bicep, giggling and leaning against his barrel-chest under the thin cotton of his tight t-shirt. Returning the obvious way he’s copping a feel.  
Ethan turns his eyes away before he can get caught staring. Working his jaw, trying to focus on anything other than the flush that’s currently crawling over his cheeks and down his neck. Trying not to think of who —the man or the woman— he was more distracted by. And what that meant.

  
He watches the crowds flush by, a blur of bright colors, plunging necklines, short skirts and shorts.  
He exhales into the chatter of the night.

Fiddling with the silver chain on his neck, picking at his barely-there nail polish. Navy blue chips flaking away against his pale palm.

Then he’s at the front of the line- and fuck. Ethan hasn’t even had time to anxiously go over what he was gonna say eighty times before inevitably fucking it up anyway-

“Name,” The bouncer says. And Ethan swallows, hard and dry, because it does not help with how intimidating this man is. Tall and burly with a bald head and a semipermanent crease to his thick-brows.

He didn’t look up as he repeated, “name, please.” He continues looking down at a clipboard in his hand-

Wait. Fuck. This was probably one of those exclusive clubs. That’s why the line was so short- fuck-

“I-I, uh,” Ethan manages, barely not choking-

The man looks up, and for a moment his expression just- shifts. His eyebrows furrow, and then raise.  
He smiles, and it’s weirdly kind.

  
“Hey, you’re Ethan Nestor,” he says with a smile, his voice raises, “CrankGamePlays, right?”

Ethan can barely nod. His arms are still crossed, anxiety thrumming through his veins.

“My kids your stuff,” the bouncer says. He lifts his hand and claps Ethan on the shoulder, hard enough that Ethan would’ve stumbled if he weren’t already stiff and terrified.

“You’re hilarious, dude!” He says.

Ethan lets out a weak laugh.  
“Uh, thank- thank you,” Ethan says, he rubs at the back of his neck. “But uh, I just-“

The bouncer is already removing his hand though, unclipping the red velvet rope that barred him from the open door. The lights within flash and spin, leaving Ethan even more disoriented as he’s guided inside.

  
“But I’m, uh, I’m not on the list?” Ethan says meekly.

The bouncer doesn’t seem to care.

“Don’ worry about it. Clipboard’s mostly for recommendations anyway.”

The subtext is obvious. ‘ _Real stars don’t need to be on a list, people recognize them no matter what._ ’

Ethan feels vaguely jittery.  
He lets out another spell of nervous laughter.

“Mind if I get 'n autograph tho? For the kids?” He asks, pulling out a spare piece of paper. Ethan wonders vaguely how this became his life-

“I, uh, I’m glad they enjoy it,” Ethan says, feeling a little giddy at being recognized, and having it not just be as ‘Markiplier’s sidekick’.

“W-Who should I make it out to?”

“Just 'Jamie and Ryan' works perfect,” he says fondly. Even spelling out their names just to make sure.

Ethan quickly writes out something quick about how awesome they are and to keep on dreaming.  
The bouncer makes idle conversation while he does. And thankfully, the people in line behind him seem too drunk or high to really care about waiting.

“So, ya just checking out the clubs in the area or what? Any kind of celebration going?” The bouncer asks with a friendly gesture. Something about the way the tall, muscular, intimidating man suddenly seemed soft reminded Ethan a lot of Tyler, in their first few interactions. The friendly hesitation and quiet strength.

“I-I’m just looking around,” Ethan answers slowly, finishing the autograph the bottom slowly to make sure it’s just right.  
He looks back up, and the bouncer looks a lot less intimidating. Maybe it’s because Ethan’s no longer on the brink of a panic attack, or maybe it’s because of the way his eyes glitter as he talks about his kids.

“I’ve lived around here for a while and I never really, uh, checked out the night-scene,” Ethan shares, doing his best to keep his breathing even. “Felt like something I should try.”

“Well 'er glad to have ya!” The bouncer says. He takes the signed piece of paper, and trades it for some kind of glow-in-the-dark, plastic wrist band. It’s made of little yellow connecting stars.

“Here ya go,” the man says, fastening out on his wrist before he can even speak.

“Go n’ head on upstairs."

“Up… stairs?” Ethan asks, once again lost. Amy had once told him that when he talked like that he sounded like a kid who lost his parents in the grocery store; Ethan tried to not feel like it.

“Well yeah. Ya got yer’ star-bracelet,” he said,”I ‘figured you’d rather have a night without random fans, grabbing at you for autographs.” He says it like it’s a common problem for him. Something he’d want to avoid.

  
He takes Ethan’s silence as agreement, leaning slightly closer.

“This week’s code word 's 'Dionysus'.” He whispers, clapping Ethan heartedly on the back and sending him stumbling inside.

Ethan stumbles and bumps into a man in a bright pink tank-top. Ethan stutters out an apology, but the dude doesn’t seem to notice. Odds are he couldn’t hear it through the blasting techno music that feels kind of like it’s shaking his lungs in his chest.  
The fresh stench of alcohol and sweat hangs heavier in here. And Ethan brushes through, keeping to the edge of the room and following the barely-visible floor markings toward the second, red-roped off set of stairs. The man there seems markedly less intimidating, but a lot more bored. He just bows his head toward Ethan, catching sight of the neon yellow-star wristband and waiting for the codeword.

“D-Dionysus,” Ethan says, silently hoping that upstairs is a little quieter, and the man nods.  
The man there has him scrawl out his name onto some kind of list —which looks remarkably similar to the list that the bouncer had been holding out front— and then the man sends him on his way.

  
Ethan makes his way up the stairs, happy as the music fades enough for it to not feel like his brain is about to vibrate out of his skull.  
He opens the light, oaken door and enters meekly into a smaller, far less crowded bar. The music thrums pleasantly in his ears, some tinny pop song he can remember Tyler complaining of as an ear-worm.

The neon lights pulse slower up here, giving him a better view of his surroundings, even through the light crowd. The bar is set up on the right on an elevated platform from the rest of the room, high heels click across the lacquered oak of the dance floor. Circular tables reside around the dark corners, but they’re hard to see through the light sea of bodies.

If only on instinct —and the slight need to get at least _slightly_ tipsy before having to deal with any more human interaction— Ethan makes his way to the bar and sits down in one of the slightly squeaky leather-padded stools. It twists on it’s iron stand as he tucks himself against the cool white of the marble bar-top. It’s unstained by crescent drink stains or drunkards.

  
  
The bartender and the woman next to him laugh at something. They seem friendly enough. Well dressed to- in fact, pretty much everyone up here seem to be dressed a little nicer too. The dance floor filled with men in un-buttoned dress shirts and slacks, women in tall heels and vaguely expensive looking, skimpy dresses.

  
“So what can I get for ya tonight?” The bartender says with a friendly, western trill. Ethan swivels in his seat back toward the bar. Her brassy hair is tied up in a slick ponytail, tugging back from her tanned face and soft cheeks. She adjusts her cuffed white-dress shirt, her suspenders and black bowtie shifting slightly.

“Uh,” he pauses, searching for any kind of drink he remembered. He really should have prepared better for this-  
“Could I get a rum and coke?”

The barkeep —her name tag says ‘Sarah’— pauses a moment.  
She leans against the counter, tan forearms against smooth marble- but before she can speak, the woman next to him laughs. Loud enough to catch his attention.

“You come to one of the best bars in town and you want a rum and coke?” The woman asks between laughter, her long, fluffy black hair thrown back with her head. She kicks and crosses her legs, her insanely-tall and glittery silver platform heels sway. Ethan can’t tell if she’s tipsy, or if she’s just blunt.

“Oh lay off ‘im, sugar,” Sarah says, waving a hand.  
She’s grinning though, and the fluttering unease shifts in his chest. Ethan’s face flushes and he fights the urge to curl tighter into the relative shelter of the open bar-stool.

“I’ll get your rum and coke in a moment hun,” Sarah says, turning to glare at the other woman in a way that instantly reminds Ethan of Mark. All faux stiffness and hidden fondness. Only the fondness seems a lot more visible here.

Ethan ignores how that particular thought settles in his gut like something gone sour. He shifts, and the leather padding squeaks slightly.

The bartender turns, her faux glare sharpening in twin with her grin.  
“Right after I kick this lil lass in the-“

“Ohh, kinky,” the other woman says. Fluttering her unnaturally long eyelashes and leaning lip against the counter. Her ample chest pushed out from where it was barely concealed under her purple-sequined body-con dress, the deep neckline leaving little to the imagination.  
Sarah just rolls her eyes, like this is a practiced routine for them.

Ethan turns back toward the counter, staring intently at the little grey waves in the marble surface. He can feel the music vibrating through it.

“I’m Candy, by the way,” the woman says, her smooth cognac voice suddenly a lot closer than it had been. Ethan looks up, and the black haired woman- Candy, his mind supplies unhelpfully, stares straight back at him. Her brown eyes shimmer under purple eyeshadow. She takes another swig of her drink, some kind of neon cocktail with a fruit skewer for a garnish.

“N-Nice to meet you. I’m Ethan,” he says, reaching out a hand on instinct.

She quirks a brow, and Ethan feels suddenly like he’s fucked up-

She grins, and reaches out her manicured hand to meet and shake his- the one that wasn’t holding her drink, anyway. Their wrists have matching, glowing star-bracelets.

“Hm. Good manners,” she comments, smiling toward Sarah, who’s already mixed and set out Ethan’s rum and coke.  
Sarah just smiles as she brushes by, shooting Candy a raised brow and a reminder to ' _play nice_ ', before heading toward the other end of the bar to cater another customer. Ethan doesn’t miss the way Candy’s dark eyes track her.

“So, Ethan,” Candy twists back toward him lazily, “what brings you to our corner of LA,” Candy asks. Ethan takes a swig of his drink. The burn is immediate and heavy. A physical reminder that he hasn’t drunk in a while, and maybe he should take it slow.

He just takes another swig.

“Brings me to the bar? Or to LA?” Ethan asks. Trying not to let on how fucking weird this all feels- because this is what people do, right? They go to bars and chat with strangers, and drink until they can’t feel their toes-

“Either one, both.” Candy lifts the fruit skewer that garnished her cocktail, and takes a bite out of one of the strawberries, smudging her red lipstick slightly. Her eyes glance back to Sarah.

“I came to LA for work, I guess,” Ethan pauses, taking another quick sip, then laughs a little. She leans closer again as the music amps in intensity, still listening closely.

“And I’m _here_ because of work too.” He says, because isn’t that _hilarious_. 

Candy seems to think so, as she lets out a belt of laughter and lifts her drink to that.

A part of him wonders what his friends would think if they saw him here, laughing and grinning, drinking and chatting along with a stranger in a tight-dress. He immediately takes another swig, hoping to drown that thought before it can come for him.

“Actually same here,” Candy says as her martini glass clinks against his thick-glass snifter.

“What do you do?” Ethan asks, though it feels kind of like he has to shout now.  
The pulse from the dance floor feels good though. Someone behind them laughs, someone else swears. It feels good.

“Professional burlesque dancer and porn star,” Candy says casually. She’s closer now —probably so that she doesn’t have to scream over the still pumping music—, enough that can feel her breath, smell the fruity cocktail she’d been sipping on and the honeyed-floral of her perfume.

“Oh, cool,” Ethan says with a friendly nod. Her confidence —or maybe it's just the rum kicking in— feels vaguely infectious, as he leans against the back of his bar-stool.

She smiles at that, and an invisible tenseness falls away from her shoulders.

“Again, very well-mannered,” she says. Sarah returns and pours them both another glass, Ethan thanks her graciously, even though his mind is still vaguely stuck on Candy’s reaction. Was it because they were in a club? Because it was the dead of night and they were both in mostly spandex? Was it more more normal to be rude?

Ethan blinks. The warmth of alcohol burns the back of his throat and settles his his chest. Pleasantly fuzzing his thoughts and weighing on his eyes.

“I mean, I’m not gonna be rude just based off your occupation,” Ethan says, rolling his eyes. He feels weirdly relaxed. He takes another swig, relishing in the anxiety that flushes off his shoulders.  
“I’m a YouTuber,” he laughs. “That’d be real hypocritical of me,” he says.

“Fuck, we probably have some of the same equipment!” He says, spurning another round of laughter.

“I’m presuming you mean cameras?” Candy says, still grinning, warm and wide.

  
“ _Well_...” Ethan says, leaning slightly too heavily against the back of his seat. “We did spend a pretty penny for ball-gags, electric shock collars and such, so there’s that.”

“Electric shock collars and ball-gags?” She asks, and Ethan’s buzzed enough that he really can’t tell if she’s intrigued or just shocked. But she’s laughing a second later, so he supposes it really doesn’t matter.

  
Sarah returns and leans up against the counter.

  
“Yeah,” he lets out his own laugh. The world feels brighter and sways a little. It’s like one of those tea-cup rides at carnivals. He feels fuzzy.  
“If you want any of them, feel free to shoot me a text. I have no clue what I’m gonna do with that many sex toys.”

Sarah oddly enough does not look shocked by any of this. If anything, she looks fond.

“Yeah, great first impression,” Sarah comments, “Some good old, ‘ _Lightly used sex toys_ ’ is what _everyone_ wants for Christmas.”

“Hey, depends on who they’ve been used _by_ , that can ramp up the price,” Candy says, looking like she’s about to go into a lecture teaching him the ins-and-outs of being a sex worker.

Ethan laughs, loud and reckless and free.

It feels good.


	3. Anamneses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anamneses  
> an·am·ne·ses   
> (noun, plural) The recollection or remembrance of forgotten things.

Ethan wakes up to a headache that could level a small town. His throat feels dry, even swallowing hurts like a bitch.

His hand outstretches and drags across the wood of his bedside table, searching for his phone-

  
His fingers brush something cold and damp; a glass. The water he’d set out before he even left for the club last night. He reaches blindly and grabs it, shuffling and adjusting under the covers —idly realizing he had managed to change into pajamas, thankfully— to crane his neck against the headboard. He lifts the cool glass weakly to his lips, it’s cold and slick from condensation, but the liquid feels so good flushing down his grainy, desert-dry throat.  
It helps with the bitter taste in his mouth too.

A few droplets dribble down the corners of his lips, down his chin and his neck. His face feels itchy; he probably didn’t wash it last night either.

  
Ethan’s sore body groans, joints popping as he sits up, but doesn’t immediately regret it —so thankfully there’s no nausea to add to his misery-cocktail— and finds himself incredibly thankful that he’d closed his blinds last night. Limiting the sun to bleach-bright stains just under the sill. He tucks his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. His legs strain a little, sore, but a little stretching would take care of that.

  
Ethan squints, his head still aching harshly. His feet pad from soft carpet to cold tile of the bathroom, and Ethan squints his eyes and rubs at his temples to try and rid the strain.  
He pops open the cabinet with his free hand, and reaches behind the mirror and pops open the small, rattling bottle of headache pills.

His throat still feels vaguely raw, but another long sip of cool water soothes it well enough.  
He laps the edge of the glass for the last swig of the water, taking it with the pills. Then fills the glass half way at the tap.

  
Ethan’s heading back when he hears his phone ding from somewhere on the floor. It’s muffled enough that he figures it’s probably from the pile of clothes —his rumpled outfit from last night, he realizes— and as he sorts through it one-handed, he realizes it’s still tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He tugs it out of the stiff pocket, accidentally tugging out two latched wristbands with it. One of interconnected stars, the other a striped blue and pink one.

  
The brights screen flares up as Ethan stands back up, taking another swig of water as he finally makes his way to the kitchen. It’s brighter in here. The sun glows bright and golden through the wide slats of the pale venetian-blinds, glinting in glittering refractions across the metal of his stove-top, the handles of his cabinets and his coffee maker.

He scrolls through the notifications. Tags on twitter and instagram, stuff on his most recent video. There’s texts from his friends too. Tyler had sent him a random text, joking about the most recent Markiplier-Makes. Amy had sent him a meme.

Ethan rolls his shoulders and neck, relishing in the satisfying pop it makes.

There’s two texts from someone else too. Ethan narrows hie eyes as he pulls up the contact.

Under the ‘ _name_ ’ section, there’s just a bunch of emojis for candy.  
He narrows his eyes. He can’t remember getting the number… but he has a strong suspicion as to who this might be.

He looks at the text history. first text was from him; he couldn’t remember sending it, but that's not very shocking.

It was just a really long ’ _Heyyyy_ ’ with an absolutely absurd amount of flirty emojis from it. He can only guess he texted it so the number would show in Candy’s phone.

This morning though, there had been another text. At about ten am, so an hour ago.

  
‘ _hey Blue, you said you’d text when u got home safe_ ’, it said casually. Far less emojis this time.

  
Then thirty minutes later.

  
‘ _it’d really suck if you were dead in an alley. text me back, blue, xoxo_ ’

Ethan lets out a laugh at that, smiling even through his still aching head. Quickly tapping out a response as he downs the rest of his water.  
He mindlessly grabs a mug from the cabinet.

‘ _Sorry, can’t, I died._ ’

Ethan sets the mug under the spout of the coffee maker and preps it.  
Barley a minute later, his phone dings.  
He presses the button and the coffee machine begins to gurgle, steam rising in earthy-scented clouds as it began to pour.  
He checks his phone.

‘ _Ah damn._ ’ Candy says, Ethan smiles.

A moment or so later, there’s another ding.

‘ _Which ones should I wear to the funeral?_ ’

  
She sends two pictures, of two pairs of _insanely_ high heels.  
One was a pair of ostentatiously glittery gold heels with black bows on the toe. The other was a pair of neon blue platforms with black laces.

Ethan smiles, clicking off the coffee machine and pulling out his full mug. He adds sugar and cream while he types out his reply.

‘ _Platforms, def._ ’ he sends.

‘ _Color co-ordinates with my hair._ ”

She sent several thumbs up emojis and a few blue hearts. He sent a few back, with a few glitter ones just for the hell of it.

¶¶¶

Ethan is in the middle of editing a video for his own channel when his phone rings. He doesn’t check who it is, he doesn’t have to. The ringtone is specific enough that he just hits accept as soon as it appears.  
He leans back in his seat, scrubbing at his eyes and halfway through a long swig of his cold-coffee. Waiting for the voice on the other end. Ethan lifts the phone and holds it in the crest of his shoulder and neck, keeping his hands free.

“Hey Ethan,” Mark’s voice says through the plinky distortion of the speakers.  
Ethan quickly scans over his work and saves the file.

“How’s it going?” Mark asks, pausing for a response. Ethan, who's mid-sip, just let out a garbled, non-committal, deep grunt that barely sounds human, let alone like any kind of coherent wording.  
  


The line stays quiet for a tiny moment, but it’s long enough for Ethan’s shoulders to stiffen at the odd silence.  
He swallows his mouthful.

“Good," Ethan says, "what’s up,” he asks, his voice comes out lower than it usually does, maybe because he hasn’t actually spoken all day, maybe just because he wasn’t expecting a call, and he’s waiting for Mark to get to the point. He taps his foot impatiently.

The silence stays though, sticking like something caught between his teeth.

  
It’s odd. Usually when Mark calls him he just starts talking as soon as the call connects. It’s odd for him to actually try and strike up conversation.

“You’re not busy, are you?” Mark asks. His tone means he obviously expects Ethan to be free.  
Something clatters in the background. Someone else chides about it, the disapproval is familiar; feminine. Amy or Kathrine, then.

“Only sorta, what’s up?” Ethan says.  
He can hear more shuffling, then Tyler’s voice as he picks up whatever fell.

They’re all together then.

And maybe that should bother him; that his friends are all hanging out without him.

“Well I know you’re not scheduled to come in today, but was figuring if you wanted we could all come over and discuss video ideas.” He says. And _there’s_ the rambling Mark he knew so well.

“Ya know, do some brainstorming? The rest of the team is already here,” Mark continues.

Ethan’s phone dings.  
It’s from Candy.

  
Ethan puts Mark —who is still talking about the brainstorming session, and what food they were gonna order, as well as glossing over a few of the ideas they’d already come up with— on speaker so he can check it.

His leg clunks against the leg of his desk from where he was kicking them, fidgeting.

His phone takes a second to load, then Candy’s text pops up.

‘ _u coming to Desire tonight?_ ’ Candy texts, with a solitary red-dressed dancer emoji next to it.

Ethan kinda blinks.  
He’d totally forgotten that was the club’s name. Or maybe he’d just forgotten it had a name at all; or that last night wasn’t just some lonely fever-dream of escapism-fantasies his waking mind wouldn’t admit to.

Mark’s voice flows over him. He’s talking to Tyler now, debating about the pros and cons of doing a burlesque-themed video. Mark seems pretty solidly in the _yes_ camp, yammering about how funny it'll be as they fall on their asses, but Tyler is more cautious of it, wondering aloud if it's just a repeat of the already slightly-overdone pole dancing videos.

Ethan kind of wonders if Mark’s forgotten he’s even on the phone right now.

Ethan goes back to Candy’s question.

Unlike last night, he _did_ have stuff to do tomorrow. Most notably he had to go to the office and edit at least a few of Mark’s videos.  
But that was later in the evening… and so long as he got home a little earlier, he should be fine.

  
His fingers type before he can overthink it.

‘ _Yeah, that sounds like fun :)_ ’, he types.  
And then it’s sent.

A second later and Candy sends him a flood of emojis, smily faces and dancers and glitter and blue and purple hearts.

Ethan laughs- then remembers he’s still on a call.

  
“Mark,” Ethan addressees quickly. Forcing Mark and Tyler’s apparent, heated debate on how relatively not-easy it would be to work through a broken ankle while pole-dancing —he doesn’t want to ask— to pause.  
  


“I can come over to the office now, if that works,” Ethan says, already standing.

He doesn’t notice the odd silence of those on the other end, not used to Ethan speaking up for himself.

  
“I’ve got some stuff to do tonight though,” Ethan says. He swallows tightly, then busy's himself with another sip of bitter-cold-coffee.

“Oh, okay.” Mark says, quick and chipper, “See you soon, then!”

“See ya,” Ethan replies.

  
And the call ends.


End file.
